Long Warhome Poems
Long Warhome Poems. Below are the most popular long Warhome by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Warhome poems by poem length and keyword.
When the battle is won, 'tis the general who claims the laurel wreath.
Seldom is lavish praise bestowed upon the lowly ranks beneath.
But it's the valiant fellow in the trenches with his bayonet and gun,
Who bears the brutal brunt of battle to see the victory won!
In all the countless conflicts since biblical time began,
'Tis the lieutenants and sergeants who execute the battle plan.
Generals concoct grandiose schemes from the comfort of a bunker,
While the fellow in the trenches from bomb and shell must hunker!
His home is a burrow in the ground, dug to comply with regulations.
There he tries to sleep, keep socks dry and eat his meager rations.
His helmet becomes a lavatory to brush his teeth and shave.
It also serves as a dandy tub for taking and occasional lave!
He foregoes the "comfort" of home now and then to take a stroll,
Trudging thro' mud, sleet and snow on a hazardous night patrol,
Gingerly plodding thro' fields of mines, adding tension to his woe.
Returning to his barren hole, how he pines for a steaming cup o' joe!
There's no relief from the constant din of battle or the cannons' roar.
He knows all too well the horrible gore and agony of war.
It takes cooks, artillerymen, "tankies" and all to see the victory won,
But it's the courageous fellow in the trenches who really "gits 'er done".
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
little boy sittin at home
good little boy said his prayers all alone
just before he said amen
he thought to ask his question again
when is daddy commin home?
when is daddy commin home? amen
nobody, put him on their shoulder's anymore
he used to climb on daddies back
when he had'em on the floor
everything that daddies did
his daddy did and more
just to play with the son
he verily did adore
in his heart the little boy grew
the vicious fact that he could not ignore
that a home without a daddy
is the home of the poor
why can't God just end all wars
why can't daddies talk with other daddies
and try to end this war
why can't daddies come home
and be what they was before
why can't daddies be what they
was before the war
Form:
This is the crews final flight, their twenty-fifth mission.
"Lord", they pray, "deliver us one last time from this perdition!"
Thank You for Your guiding hand upon the yoke thus far.
We ask for Your protection, nothing this mission to mar!"
They get the green light from the guys in the tower,
Then roar down the runway, engines straining at full power!
Crew place their trust in the Lord and their venerable old queen:
Their durable, faithful, war-weary B-Seventeen!
They climb steadily from their British home station,
Joining other flights in a protective box-formation.
Gunners on the alert and the bombardier at the ready;
Navigator charting the way, pilot keeping the plane level and steady!
The target is sighted, shot and shell fly as thick as hail.
Over the intercom is heard an anguished cry from the tail!
The gunner is wounded, please God, don't let him die!
Two engines are gone, it's becoming difficult to fly!
Two little buddies, P-Fifty-Ones, close in to escort them home!
Flaps and wheels are lowered, they land smoothly on the drome!
The gunner survived, they thank God for their salvation,
Each full of jubilation, ready for home and joyous celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Mike came home from Afghanistan yesterday,
I ran into him at the VFW...he looked at me
from behind eyes that had seen what no 22 yr. old
kid should have to see....he told me he didn't
belong here, that his brothers were in the s---
and he wasn't there to help......
Mike came home from Afghanistan two-weeks ago,
but only his body was here, his head was
still playin' tricks on him....... Mike didn't say much,
just blasted his drinks and looked uncomfortable.
Mike came home from Afghanistan three-months ago,
I heard he had been a recon sniper in the Stan,
and watched as one of his brothers had been
ambushed and snatched in the distance,
unable to help.......
Mike came home from Afghanistan four-months ago,
people said he went crazy at the bar, raced-off
on his motorcycle and crashed goin' 110 mph.
around a highway crossover in the pourin'-rain.
Mike never came home from Afghanistan,
but his body's in a box, buried in his hometown.